


this time in spring

by k0skareeves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Romance, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24293593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k0skareeves/pseuds/k0skareeves
Summary: Jon returns to Winterfell. Sansa has something to ask of him.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 90





	this time in spring

Jon opens the door to the chambers with a haste.

He’s not prepared for what awaits him inside.

The room is hot, more candles are lit than he’s used to, the air heavy with a faint smoke. Everything seems in place, the bed, the desk, the trunk, and yet the sight of the large wooden tub at the corner of the room is what makes his heart skip a beat.

The Queen is bathing.

Jon can only see the top of her cleavage, with everything else being submerged. He gets a good view of her chest, shoulders and neck, all bare to him, her pale skin flushed from the hot water. Her hair is pinned up and away from her face, a few strands having escaped its hold, the red locks looking vibrant under the candle lights. Sky blue eyes stare at him, pupils widened, and he realizes he must’ve startled her with his rushed entrance. He opens his mouth to speak but no words come to him.

A moment of silence passes, both of them unmoving, then she shifts inside the tub, crossing her arms on her chest while turning her body towards his standing figure. “Jon?”

He swallows at how his name sounds on her lips, a shiver going through him despite the heat, the steam of her bath mixing with the smoke of the candles. He manages a hum in response, still not being able to find the right words.

“Has something happened?”

There’s a bit of worry in her eyes now, and it shames Jon how much he wants to soothe a thumb over her furrowed brows. He realizes that it must seem as if something urgent has occurred, that is the only possible explanation for him to have barged in on the Queen’s chambers without even a knock first. Indeed, something quite urgent is the reason why he’s in here, why he came to her in a hurry. He can feel himself blush at the thought, considering her nakedness in front of him, even if she’s mostly shielded by the wood and the water.

“Sansa,” Jon manages to choke out, his voice hoarse. He feigns a cough and brings his fist to his mouth, attempts to clear his throat before speaking again. “I was out in the training yard, working with some of the younger boys...” He’s been back at Winterfell for three moons now, with a pardon from both the Queen in the North and the King of the Six Kingdoms safely tucked inside his tunic. Upon his arrival, Sansa determined that he would work alongside her Master-at-arms. Jon had been trained by the late Sir Rodrik since an early age, and the many years of fighting alongside knights and the free folk had made him to be quite possibly the greatest swordsman alive. Or so he had been told by the young boys he teached, who loved to repeat to him the songs and tales of the great Jon Snow, bastard turned King, defeater of the ruthless Dragon Queen and the Army of the Dead, Good Queen Sansa’s brother-cousin, who had been banned to the Wall as a punishment he did not deserve. He would prefer to not know such things, would prefer if the people didn’t talk about him, but a man has no control over whether or not he’s fit to become a legend, and to the northerns Jon Snow was the perfect candidate for such title.

“Yes, go on.”

He hears as Sansa encourages him to continue. His hands clench and unclench. A legendary warrior would be braver than this, he thinks. A skilled swordsman wouldn’t be scared to confront his Queen, not when she was family, not when she was kind and gentle and sweet, not when she had never made him feel inadequate or incapable, not when she had always shown her faith in him. Sansa’s heart has managed to remain good, some might even say pure, through all the misfortune and tragedy they’ve endured since that awful day when they had left Winterfell for the first time. Even after all the years, even after carrying the burden of a crown - because to Jon, with all the consequences that had come from once accepting the noble title, being the head of a realm was in fact a burden - and acquiring independence for the North, Sansa has managed to remain just and honorable, as a true ruler should be.

“Maester Wolkan came to see me. He said he had some business to discuss.” He pauses, eyes darting to the ground, a shaky breath leaving his lips. He looks up at her again before speaking. “About the line of succession to the Northern Crown.”

“Oh.”

Jon watches as a faint blush appears on her cheeks, and he feels as his own face gets hot. Suddenly, the room feels suffocating, and he would gladly go back to the training ward, where a cool breeze would hit his sweaty limbs, soothing him after a good spar. It was finally spring in the North, and the air seemed lighter than it had ever been, much to everyone’s enjoyment. Children played more often in the courtyard, loving husbands picked wild flowers for their wives and there had been an increasing number of pregnancies. At the thought, Jon feels his mouth get dry. He fights the urge to wet his lips with his tongue as the memory of his conversation with the Maester brings a blush to his cheeks.

He’s not sure how he manages to choke out the words, but he does it. “It seems like the North needs heirs.” His voice is once again hoarse.

Sansa’s expression is unreadable to him, apart for something in her eyes that he recognizes as defiance. No, not defiance. Resolution. He braces himself for whatever it is she might tell him.

“Will you please shut the door?” Her voice is but a whisper, and it urges him to get closer, yet he will stay put for as long as he can help himself. “I don’t want anyone else to see me like this.”

He swallows, then nods, turning to close the door behind him. He considers if he should secure it with the lock, preventing them from being disturbed, but he’s not sure as to how she would feel if he did, so he simply turns back to face her, and waits.

After a moment, she speaks. “Yes, that’s true.”

Jon tries to process her words, to make sense of what she’s telling him alongside with the conversation he had with Wolkan just a few moments before. Sansa has been Queen for three of her name days now, he’d been informed of such at his arrival, and he understands the need for heirs. The Stark lineage must survive, the North will need a ruler once she’s gone. He half expected to see her married by the time he made it to the gates of Winterfell, although no raven had reached him with news of such union, and it took all his strength to walk into the great hall with the chance of seeing a strange man by her side. To his surprise and happiness - and he’s ashamed to admit to himself but by the gods, was he happy - it had been only her, sitting alone at the wooden chair, the same one where he had once sat, no one by her side.

Now, he wonders if he should’ve wished for something different.

He opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “I trust no other.”

“Sansa-”

“I’m not commanding you to do this, Jon, if that’s what you think.” She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and he watches as she sinks further into the water. Her arms leave her now fully submerged chest, and Jon knows that if he were to look, if he were to dive in his hand and reach for her, he would find her hands resting on her lap, right thumb pressing on the inside of the left palm. Her eyes are cast down as she continues. “I would never force you into it, into anything, not ever. I know what is like to be ordered at and to have to obey despite my wishes. I would never do that to you.” She pauses, lifting her eyes to him again, sky blue eyes that he’s used to dreaming of. “I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.”

“You’re asking me if I would put a babe in you?”

It surprises him, how he phrases it, but it is what she’s asking. It’s what the Maester came to talk to him about. It’s what he’s dreamed of, shamefully, in secret, long before he knew of his true lineage, long before the gods would have accepted their union. A son was something Jon longed for ever since himself was but a boy. A son with a woman he loved seemed a dream too unattainable, even now. But it’s what she is asking of him, and he thinks he might be asleep, and for a moment he can even see it, a small babe, with his dark curls and her ocean blue eyes, running after Ghost in the Godswood while he and Sansa sit together by the heart tree.  _ We could name him Robb. _

Her voice brings him back from his thoughts. “Yes.” And she even dares to smile at him, sweetly, cheeks blushing once more, and by the gods does she look lovely. Too lovely and sweet and good. “I was hoping for more than one, in fact, but if one is how many you can agree to then one it will be.”

Sansa Stark is too good to ever be his.

Jon’s body moves forward despite his own will, even as he speaks. “Sansa, I swore I would father no children.”

Her tone is persistent now. “I’m aware, but that was a long time ago.”

He lets out a small chuckle, swiping his hand over his mouth, unable to take his eyes away from her. “Aye, but still, a bastard's life is a hard one.”

She gives him a look now, one he recognizes immediately. It’s the look he sees whenever his nightmares will allow him to dream of her instead. It’s the same look she gave him the day she told him winter had arrived, many moons ago, the day he kissed her forehead while wishing to kiss her lips. “They wouldn’t be bastards, Jon, they would be Starks. Like us.”

His feet have brought him to stand near the tub, and he kneels, willingly, staring at her as an equal now. That’s how she sees him, how she makes him feel, always, ever since they’ve met again at the Wall, and even before, when they were children, in her own way. She has always made him feel deserving of the Stark name, of her, even when he had felt as less, even when he would’ve settled for nothing at all.

“I’m the Queen, I can legitimize my own children.”

_ Jon doesn’t have the Stark name. _

_ No, but I do. _

“Aye, I’m aware.”

Only a few inches separates them, and Sansa dares to come forward, her face merely inches from him, her expression as vulnerable as can be, and he sees how her bottom lip trembles before she speaks. “I know this is not what you wanted, I know  _ I’m _ not who you wanted, but I thought-”

And the thing is, Jon is no prince.

He might’ve been at birth, but he was raised as a bastard, thought like one, fought like one, lived like one. He wanted things in a bastardly way, always wishing for what he could not have, always yearning for what was out of reach. And he had wanted Sansa from the moment he laid eyes on her at Castle Black. A girl with a grey cloak in a dying horse. A half sister he thought long lost. A reason to live again, to fight, to take back what was hers,  _ theirs,  _ by right.

And despite all that he still wants more.

Jon moves forward, capturing her lips in his, not letting her finish. She can’t be more wrong, even if that’s hardly ever the case. There is nothing he wants more than her, except maybe to accept her wishes and give her a babe. A son, with his dark curls and her blue eyes. And a red haired daughter with dark eyes as him, as Arya, as Ned Stark. As his mother. _Little Lyanna Stark._ And many more children, as much as she wants, he will gladly give them to her, and care for them, and teach them and protect them and be the father he always wished he would be. 

His hands come to rest on each side of her face, cupping her cheeks, pulling her closer to him. She lets out a faint whimper, her lips parting and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue gently caressing her mouth, urging her to let him in, to let him taste her like he wants to, like he has only dreamed of doing. Sansa’s wet palms come to rest at his shoulders as she pushes herself up, tugging him closer as water splashes on his thighs and the floor from her rushed movements.

She breaks their kiss and Jon lets her, but keeps his hands on her face, eyes locked with hers, a shiver going through him as he becomes aware of their closeness and her state of undress. “Is that a yes?”

He blurts out, not thinking. “Do you really have to ask?”

Her face is flushed, lips pink from his touch. He wants to kiss her again, wants to do more than kissing. “It’s just to be certain. I don’t want you to think that you have to. You don’t. I can find someone else if you don’t wish to, I just…” She stops, lowering her eyes, voice sounding small and unsure and it hits him how much he never wants to hear her sound like this again. He moves his right hand, coming to cup her chin, thumb hovering just above her lips, and he watches as she sucks in a breath.

“Say it, sweet girl.”

He feels her words against his thumb, sees them in her eyes as she looks up. “I don’t just wish for children, I wish for  _ our  _ children. I want you, Jon.” Despite the hot water, she shivers on his hold, her right hand coming to rest on his chest, just above his racing heart.

“I only ever wanted you.”

An urge possesses him, something that comes from deep within, a need to be closer to her, making him move without thinking. He surges forward, kissing her, pushing her down while he climbs inside the tub, still fully clothed, boots dirty with mud, making a mess as the bath’s water splashes out of the tub and lands everywhere. Sansa yelps on his lips, surprised, then she’s laughing between kisses, and they’ll both need to bathe again after, the water ruined from his dirty clothes and boots, but he doesn’t care. All he knows is Sansa’s body pressed against him, her arms around his shoulder, his hands on her waist, her lips on his as she comes to straddle him.  _ “Jon.” _

“I’ll give you babes, Sansa.” He tells her, kissing her chin, her neck, her shoulders, her lips again as she gasps. “I’ll give you children, and I’ll raise them with you and I’ll be by your side, willingly, for as long as you’ll have me.”

And Jon doesn’t say it, not when his mouth finds her breasts, not when her hands work on untying his breeches, not when he pushes inside her, slowly, making her gasp and tighten her hands on his curls. As he swallows her moans and rubs at her center, as he helps her find a rhythm while her walls clench around him, as he spills inside her, he doesn’t say what has been true for quite a while now. There’ll be time for that later, he still needs some time to figure out a way to be brave enough to tell her, he’s aware of that, yet it won’t be today. 

So he says something else instead.

“I only ever wanted you as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! i wanted to post this yesterday since it was the finale's anniversary (aka good queen sansa's coronation day) but some stuff happened and i couldn't finish it. so i'm posting it today. this idea came to me a short after i finished writing my drabble "haunted" for day seven of the jonsa drabble fest. if you read that, this is set in the same universe.
> 
> hope you enjoyed it! i would love to hear your thoughts on it, if you feel like it 💜
> 
> also english is not my first language so sorry for any mistakes!


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